


Planets in Alignment

by sangueuk



Series: Planets in Alignment [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M, Mirror Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 19:26:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangueuk/pseuds/sangueuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A busy night for McCoy at the academy infirmary. Guess who needs treatment…?</p><p><b>Warnings</b>:mirror universe - bad language, threats of, and references to violence, very mild medical gore, bad attitudes</p><p>Intriguing snippet: <i> The curtain dividing the waiting area from the treatment room swings violently, hits him on the arm. McCoy spins round, doesn’t quite manage to stifle the “What the <i>fuck</i> !” which escapes before he can see who’s standing there, grinning like a fucking wolf, a wolf bleeding all over his godamned floor.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Planets in Alignment

It’s a busier Saturday night than most at the academy infirmary – must be a full moon or something, McCoy thinks. There are more knife wounds than usual, mild concussions, and women, men, nursing anal and vaginal tears from sexual escapades of dubious consent. McCoy doesn’t ask. He doesn’t fucking care anymore. He’s learned to take what he can from his work – healing is the only way he can stay in touch with reality, with who he is in these dog days. Plus he needs the fucking credits, the orphanage, tuition fees. He’s been cut free of Jocelyn since he’s called in some favors - that’s something.

If McCoy allows himself to think about whether or not these assholes deserve his care, how they’ll just throw themselves back out there, how they’ll use their reattached nerves to torture and maim each other all over again – well, fine – just let them. He’s done what he can do. There’s some kind of meaning to his existence.

McCoy freezes, laser scalpel in hand, when there’s a sudden silence in the waiting area behind him. Then the rumble of voices from the line of patients waiting starts up again.

“Keep fucking still, cadet,” McCoy hisses with little real venom and he tosses the scalpel into the sterile unit. The cadet opens his eyes and looks down at his finger, or where his finger _used_ to be.

“Fuck.”

“You’ll be fine, get a grip, we’ll have it grafted on soon as. Now, take this and wait over there, I’ll get to you once I’ve dealt with the other dick-wads out there.”

The nurse pushes the cadet ahead of her, and he disappears into a side room on shaky legs not daring to glance at the severed finger sitting in the cold unit McCoy’s handed him.

McCoy resets the sterile field and flexes his back. It’s going to be a long night. Thing is, he has no idea, at this stage, quite how long.

The curtain dividing the waiting area from the treatment room swings violently, hits him on the arm. McCoy spins round, doesn’t quite manage to stifle the “What the _fuck_ !” which escapes before he can see who’s standing there, grinning like a fucking wolf, a wolf bleeding all over his godamned floor.

Jim Kirk, psychopath and asshole genius – aka Pike’s prodigy and fuck-buddy. Peachy. The planets are in alignment after all this time.

Kirk’s tall and so much younger looking close up. McCoy’s not fooled by the smirk masking his pain. He’s only ever seen Kirk at a distance, swaggering across the quad, flanked by body guards. Kirk lives in the admirals’ luxury block on the outskirts of the academy – and, yeah, why the fuck would anyone with any sense ever want to speak to Jim Kirk? Ordinarily…

Thing is, McCoy has always known that, that if he bided his time, his opportunity would come. He and Kirk would meet on _his_ terms, he could play his hand – get the ball rolling so to speak. McCoy rolls his eyes; he’ll have to stop mixing his metaphors if he wants to win this one, now he’s gotten a second chance.

“He’s hurt, asshole!” One of the sides of meat doubling as a body guard, grabs McCoy by the hair and twists him round so he’s facing Kirk full on.

“I knew my medical training would come in handy, thanks for your help,” McCoy spits back, shaking his head free and then, in case the sarcasm wasn’t evident enough, he adds, “Asshole.”

He can sense Side of Meat #I fighting with himself – guys like this, who can’t hide their feelings, they’re the ones who follow ones like Kirk who, despite the smirk, watches McCoy reach for his tricorder with an impassive expression.

“Why you stupid _fuck_!” Side of Meat hisses until a gesture from Kirk has him retreating to the curtain, returning to the waiting area and pulling it back across. He’s guarding his fucking master – nice to have someone watching your back for you, McCoy thinks. He’d like some of that too. Well maybe now…

Side of Meat #2, an Orion woman with cold eyes, gestures towards Kirk.

“When you’ve finished waving your penis around, doctor, Cadet Kirk would be grateful of your attention.”

“I’ll look forward to the fruit basket,“ McCoy says. “Are you able to speak for yourself, cadet?”

Kirk smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes – McCoy hasn’t seen a smile that does since he last saw a kid under the age of six or seven, so he’s not surprised, but this would fool most – it passes as benign, innocent. Fuck, this kid’s good.

“I’m ruining a good suit here,” Kirk says, pulling his hand away from his front. There’s a dark stain, the size of a bread bin, seeping through the black cloth, reaching Kirk’s pants, and there’s a trickle of blood at his feet.

“Shame to do that,” McCoy says, stepping aside so Kirk can sit on the bed. He’s forced to stand between Kirk’s splayed legs when he unbuttons the jacket and tugs it away with little gentleness. He tosses it onto a nearby chair and picks up his scalpel to cut away the bloodied shirt. Kirk holds McCoy’s gaze with ice-cold blue and grabs his wrist.

“Watch it, doc.”

McCoy ignores him, pulls Kirk’s hand free and cuts through the shirt. Just as he thought, a knife-wound, but it’s missed anything major or Kirk would be unconscious by now; any idiot can see that. What he can’t understand is why Kirk hasn’t gone to the admiral’s physician.

“Who did this?” McCoy asks, cleaning the area.

“You fucking kidding me?”

McCoy quirks an eyebrow, glances at Kirk’s face then looks away quickly. Kirk’s sizing him up like he’s prey on the savannah. “I’m not known for my sense of humor,” he says. “Only people like you don’t generally rough it with the hoi polloi.”

Kirk snorts with laughter. “Where you from, doc? That’s an interesting turn of phrase—“

“Nowhere you’ll have heard of,” McCoy says. This is good, maybe Kirk will remember him this time. He sprays the area with a clotting agent and, when he reaches for the trolley and the regen, McCoy bumps into the Orion. “Tell your godamm’ girlfriend to give me some breathing space, will ya?”

“Watch your fucking mouth,” she says smoothly but moves out of the way nevertheless.

“Hey, Gaila, step outside. Bones here wants to be alone with me. ”She lets out a humorless laugh and the curtains swish behind her. “She’s not my girlfriend, “Kirk whispers into McCoy’s ear, “so don’t hold back, Bones.”

McCoy wishes he can slap the kid round the ear, but then, a nickname’s further proof he’s made an impression, even if it lacks originality. Plus, McCoy doesn’t want to die now, not when he’s so close to getting what he’s worked for all these years.

Kirk’s breath is warm on McCoy’s face while he works the regen. He expected the guy to smell like an abattoir, but no, he almost smells normal: a hint of whiskey, cigarettes, milky, and something else, something he can’t quite get a handle on, total self-belief, insanity? He’s not sure and a trickle of sweat runs down McCoy’s temple.

McCoy can feel baby-blue eyes appraising him, exploring his face, his neck, his hands. McCoy glances up when he’s done and feels a bolt of desire hit his gut like a fucking sledgehammer when their eyes meet. Yeah, McCoy’s trained himself well, researched the cold-hearted bastard on the nets, jerked off over holovids and news reports enough times so even the mention of Kirk’s name’s makes him hard. Now he’s this close up, now McCoy can smell Kirk, practically taste the tang of blood on his tongue, now he’s touched the flawless, buttermilk skin, he realizes none of this was necessary. Kirk’s fucking beautiful, his lightly scarred face, the dark brows and long-lashes. Those eyes – shit.

“Nice bags under your eyes, kid,” McCoy says, irritated by how his voice comes out a croak, “I can give you something for that, or maybe you should just quit smoking, cut out salts—“

Kirk’s eyes narrow – shit, McCoy shouldn’t have mentioned the cigarettes. They’ve been illegal, to some, for a hundred years.

“What, are you my fucking dad now?” Kirk’s voice is amused. Thank fuck. “Shame, it’s not how I saw things playing out between us, but yeah, I could get into some role-play when we fuck, if that’s your bag, _daddy_.”

“Guys, especially ones who’re wet behind the ears, aren’t my ‘bag’, mister.”

There’s a very long moment, heavy, dark, like a volcanic cloud hanging over them and McCoy can feel his heart pounding, his breath climb up into his throat as he waits to see if this insolence, this gamble will pay off.

Kirk leans towards him, raises his hand and runs his knuckles down the side of McCoy’s face. “You know _who_ I am, right? You know I could have you for target practice? Have you thrown into a faulty booth, or better still getcha to blow me here – be a nice show for the fuckers out there; they could do with something to keep them entertained while they’re bleeding out…”

Somehow, sweet Jesus, _somehow_ McCoy manages not to gulp, nor break the eye-contact. How, he doesn’t fucking know, but those blue eyes, now they’re inches away from his, now he can see the glint of light in them, the pupils black and fathomless at their center, they’re just like, _shit_ just like Gram’s, the moment before McCoy pressed the lethal hypo into her neck, put her out of her misery. That cold, single-minded, remorseless, fucking _crazy_ bitch had been right.

“He’s the one, Leonard, “she’d said, gripping his hand with pale, inflamed fingers. “Remember, Kirk’s the only chance for you and Joanna. Promise me. That bitch wife of yours, she’ll dispose of you soon as she gets a sniff of someone with a bit of power, and you’ll lose our baby-girl. Don’t let that happen, promise me.”

This fucking kid. He’s their only hope. And it scares the shit our of McCoy, the way each one of Kirk’s threats, none of them idle, he damn well knows that, make McCoy more determined, make his cock strain for attention. He’s so fucking close to the prize but, if McCoy shows his fear now, Kirk will lose interest, bat him aside like every other sycophantic fuck that’s crossed his path that he’s had no use for, after Kirk’s rammed his cock down McCoy’s throat, the meatheads holding him down.

McCoy folds his arms. “We’ve met before,” he says. And Kirk’s surprised, yeah – that’s good too.

“Jesus you’re one uppity fuck,” Kirk says and, maybe, just maybe, that smile almost reaches Kirk’s eyes. McCoy’s still standing between those long thighs and, so help him, he wants Kirk to wrap them round him, force some contact – bets he could come just from that, after three years of thinking about this, about winning. “So, you gonna tell me? Bones.” A pale tongue flickers across chapped lips. Jesus the kid needs to learn how to look after himself.

“At Riverside…”

“Ah…” He remembers. Thank fuck. And like that, the atmosphere changes and Kirk relaxes visibly. McCoy’s off the hook. “You shared your drink with me—“

“Yeah, and I want that flask back, kid. Seems you were grateful enough to have me locked in the shuttle bathroom. Nice guy.”

Kirk’s shoulders shake with laughter, “Yeah, that was kinda funny. Shame I couldn’t hear you yelling once we’d set off!”

“I have aviophobia, you asshole!” He hasn’t. “I could have had a coronary—“

Now Kirk’s wiping tears from his eyes. “Man, that was so fucking funny!” The regen machine powers down and they both glance at it, to Kirk’s preternaturally white fingers, stains of blood round the nail beds, and McCoy takes in the welcome sight of a slight tenting in Kirk’s suit pants. Yeah, McCoy’s gotten to him.

The regen clatters to the floor when Kirk jumps off the bed. He punches McCoy on the arm. “I like you, Bones. I haven’t met anyone stupid enough to call me asshole since high school, so, I’m thinking, you’d be kind of feisty in bed.”

“Oh, you are, are you?”

“Yeah.” Kirk’s at the curtain now, the shirt in tatters around his muscled chest, his jacket slung over one shoulder. He licks his lips again. “In fact, I’m counting on it.”

“That right? You’re mighty full of yourself, kid—“

“So they tell me—“

McCoy holds out a hypo. “You’ll need this, it’s gonna fuckin’ hurt tonight.”

“I can handle a whole lot of pain, Bones.” Kirk ignores the hypo, leans forward and his breath ghosts across McCoy’s lips when he speaks, “I only hope you can.” And Kirk runs his thumb across McCoy’s mouth, dragging his lower lip with it, then raises it to his mouth. His tongue flickers out like a snake and that ominous gesture is some kind of promise. “I’ll deliver your flask tomorrow. In person.”

Great.

It's like the air comes back into the room when he’s gone. McCoy grabs a bowl and throws up and throws up, until all that’s left is bile, the smell making him retch harder when he realizes that’s what he could smell on Kirk’s breath.

Fuck.

 

~END~

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover art for 'Planets in Alignment'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9420917) by [avictoriangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/avictoriangirl/pseuds/avictoriangirl)




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